


beside you somehow

by marcel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fillorian Politics, Fillorian Quentin, Fillory Is Good Actually, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Beast AU, more or less, one very brief mention of a suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcel/pseuds/marcel
Summary: King Quentin seems to take their silence for discomfort and frowns guiltily. "Sorry, there's probably more important stuff I should be asking," he mumbles, fidgeting with his sleeve. "Is there, um, a cure for cancer? Who's the president?"Eliot grimaces, and can practically feel the others doing the same."Ask about Zunes again," Penny says.or: In order to take his rightful place as High King of Fillory, Eliot first has to meet the current king in Whitespire - King Quentin, who's been waiting for the High King to arrive in Fillory since he first ended up there himself.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 58
Kudos: 426
Collections: Magicians Monthly Prompt Challenge





	beside you somehow

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for the magicians monthly prompt challenge for february, royalty!!! 2.5 weeks ago i saw [this gif](https://twitter.com/proofsofconcept/status/1226261863765282816) and i've been thinking abt it ever since. this AU is like, alternate season 1 in that brakebills exists but the beast doesn't, and the gang goes to fillory for a fun weekend rather than for any world-ending reasons. also in this house we don't care about ember and umber
> 
> thank u becca for finding my terrible spelling mistakes, thank u allie for convincing me to use this 1d lyric for a title, and thank u nicole for, u know, everything. it is once again all for U.

Eliot had thought the crown would be heavier. Somehow he barely feels the weight of it, even after what must be hours, by now. He's been trying not to touch it, like he might knock it out of whatever perfect position it's in - not that he's actually seen what it looks like on him, but he trusts Margo, and it's still resting just as gently as it did when she first placed it on his head.

He almost manages to forget he's wearing it in the carriage ride to Castle Whitespire, but admittedly that's at least in part because of the Fillorian scenery passing outside the window. Everything in Fillory is beautiful or ridiculous or both, but Whitespire is on another level, like it's been ripped right out of a fairytale - or, he supposes, it's kind of the other way around, isn't it?

Going to the castle wasn't something he'd thought they'd get around to on their very first outing in Fillory. Granted, getting his hand sliced open to find out he's a long-awaited destiny-appointed king wasn't up there either, and yet here they all are in the carriage, Margo at his side with Alice and Penny across from them. The latter two have kind of been dragged along on this particular leg of the journey, but Eliot hasn't heard any complaints. Besides, the old crown-keeper guy insisted they _all_ go straight to Whitespire to meet the current king - who, as far as Eliot can tell, is some kind of hired placeholder who keeps the throne warm until a child of Earth arrives. So he's expecting this meeting to be painless and not awkward at all.

Margo, for her part, seems entirely unbothered by the whole thing, except for the grip she's had on his arm since the carriage first pulled up. The look of only-mild-interest on her face might be solely for appearances - not that Alice and Penny are paying attention to anything but the scenery outside the window - but Eliot can tell she's entranced by every bit of Fillory that the carriage passes by. And the crown suits her, he thinks proudly. He's not quite sure what to think about any of this _destiny_ business yet, except that High Queen Margo has a hell of a ring to it.

She catches his eye as the carriage rolls to a gentle stop, raising an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Of course," he says easily, making himself smile. "Not the smoothest ride in the world, but for the Fillorian equivalent of a personal limo, I'll take it."

"Hey, what's the reaction we're expecting, here?" Penny asks, looking warily out at the guards approaching. "How long has it been since the last destined king?"

Beside him, Alice frowns. "I don't think the books ever said."

Penny grimaces and turns to Eliot. "So is the current king going to fall at your feet or, like, try to kill you for usurping his throne?"

"I'll let you know," Eliot says dryly.

"It'll be fine," Margo assures him, patting his arm. "If he tries anything, it's four magicians against one old guy."

Alice gives her an unimpressed look. "Somehow, I don’t think that’s a great way to announce your ascendancy."

There's not much time to argue about it - almost as soon as the carriage drivers let them out, they're met by a mustached man practically vibrating with excitement. Tick Pickwick, as he introduces himself, somehow knows all their names already and hurries them into the castle, firing off about the High Council and some royal throne ceremony and what seems like twenty other things that Eliot figures are easier to tune out than try to follow along with. Tick leads them through the halls of Whitespire just as quickly, hardly giving them time to marvel at the grandeur of it all before he stops them outside a set of important-looking doors.

He seems to take a moment to steel himself into professionalism, then turns to Eliot. "King Quentin awaits," he says, gravely serious. "He must cede the throne to you. Are you ready?"

Eliot gives him as close to a winning smile as he can manage, under the circumstances. "Born ready, apparently."

Tick nods, then looks to the waiting guards who begin to pull the door open. The throne room is revealed as Tick leads them over the threshold, just as grand as the rest of the castle - there are the four thrones on a raised platform before them, and shallow steps leading up, and at the top— 

Eliot nearly misses a step. He expected King Quentin to be some old and dusty monarch, ready to keel over or crumble to dust in whatever seat he'd been keeping warm, but the person waiting for them, pacing in front of the thrones, is a man who looks not much older than Eliot - or maybe younger, the closer he gets. He does have a crown, though, shiny and silver, and nobody said anything about Fillorian princes, so...

"King Quentin?" Eliot can't help sounding a little doubtful as he says it, but the man stops like he's been surprised out of deep thought and turns towards them. Eliot doesn't take in much other than his deep brown eyes and nervously bitten lip before the man takes a tiny bracing breath and comes down the steps to meet them. 

"High King Eliot," he greets, sweeping into a low bow. "We've been waiting for you. Welcome to Whitespire, Your Majesty."

The title sends a little thrill through Eliot, cutting through the mix of pride and anxiety he's felt every other time he's been addressed that way so far. Maybe it sounds different when it comes from another king, or just from this one specifically.

"It's certainly a pleasure," he says, watching with a smirk as King Quentin peeks up at him almost demurely.

Beside him, Margo clears her throat and steps hard on his foot in a way he knows to mean something like _please keep it in your pants for two seconds, we_ just _got here_. "We're honoured to be here," she tacks on sweetly.

King Quentin blinks and straightens up, seeming to notice her and the others for the first time. His eyes flick up to her crown. "Oh, and you’re—?"

"High Queen Margo," Tick jumps in. "The High King saw fit to crown her."

"Damn straight," Margo says, crossing her arms. She gives King Quentin an appraising look as he bows to her, too, and Eliot is pretty sure he recognizes the pleased quirk to her lips.

Tick introduces Alice and Penny a little less graciously, but King Quentin looks around at all four of them with something like reverence. "You're all children of Earth? Or, um, adults?" He catches Eliot's gaze and ducks his head shyly. "Sorry, I don't mean to stare. It's just... been a long time."

He might even be _blushing_. This could be more fun than Eliot thought. "No harm done," he drawls, stepping a little closer. "I get the impression no one's visited recently. Are we your first Earthling experience?"

"No— well, in Fillory, yes," King Quentin says, fumbling, "but I mean— I'm from Earth, too."

"What?" Eliot laughs, but very quickly realizes how far from joking the king is, looking between his tentative smile and Margo's shocked expression. "But— how?"

"Are you from Brakebills?" Alice asks.

King Quentin gives her a confused look. "I'm from… New Jersey…?"

"Then how did you get here?" Penny demands.

"I, um… walked through a door," King Quentin says, like that explains it, then shakes his head. "It was a long time ago—"

"How long?" Margo cuts him off, eyes narrowed.

King Quentin pauses, brow furrowed. "Um. The exact timeline's a little skewed—" He glances at Tick, who shrugs unhelpfully— "but it was… 2007, I think?"

"You've been in Fillory for _ten years_?" Eliot asks, incredulous. Even five years ago feels like another lifetime to him, let alone a whole decade prior - and King Quentin must have been so young, a teenager at best— "How much of that have you spent, you know, being king?" 

"All… of it…?" King Quentin looks around at their shocked expressions and winces a little. "It just kind of— happened," he explains haltingly. "Usually the Pickwicks put forth a regent to hold the throne when no one from Earth is, you know, available. So when I arrived, even though I wasn't, like, destined for it, I was still a child of Earth, so it was the next best option, I guess."

"Damn," Penny says, then turns to Eliot. "Well, I hope this is a training-on-the-job type of gig."

"Hold on," Margo cuts in, one finger raised. "You've been king this whole time, but now that we showed up, you're just gonna abdicate? No problem?"

"I was only given the throne on the condition that I would give it up to the high king when he arrived," King Quentin says patiently, glancing at Eliot again. "And— well, you're here now, so..."

Eliot exchanges a look with Margo, who shrugs, satisfied. "I guess I am," he agrees.

King Quentin nods, then bites his lip, suddenly nervous again. "Can I… ask something? About Earth?"

Eliot supposes it's only fair, after the interrogation they just gave him. "Sure, fire away."

"Did they finally make the Hobbit movie?" He says it in a rush, like he's been holding it in all day. "Everyone still knows what that is, right? And oh, what are Zunes like now? Are cellphones, like, super tiny? Does everyone still use Myspace?"

Not entirely sure what he expected, Eliot glances at the others and finds them with the same confused-and-semi-concerned expression he's trying to hold back. King Quentin seems to take their silence for discomfort and frowns guiltily. "Sorry, there's probably more important stuff I should be asking," he mumbles, fidgeting with his sleeve. "Is there, um, a cure for cancer? Who's the president?"

Eliot grimaces, and can practically feel the others doing the same.

"Ask about Zunes again," Penny says.

"If I may, sires," Tick cuts in, "perhaps this discussion of, ah, Earth particulars can continue after the ceremony."

"Right," King Quentin agrees, sheepish. He turns and starts up the steps to the thrones, glancing back at Eliot. "If you'll join me, Your Majesty."

Before Eliot can move to follow, Margo catches his hand. "What ceremony?" she asks, suspicious.

"The ceding of the throne," Tick explains, even as he ushers Penny and Alice towards the door. "It requires privacy, Your Highness, but we've prepared the great hall for you and your companions - or I could show you your chambers, if you'd prefer?"

Margo loosens her grip a little, clearly torn between staying with Eliot and the opportunity to explore Whitespire. Eliot nudges her in Tick's direction. "Go on, take the tour," he urges, gently. "I won't let anyone sit in your throne, promise."

"You better not," Margo warns, but she squeezes his hand before she lets go and heads out with the others.

The door shuts heavily behind them, leaving Eliot alone with King Quentin, who offers a small smile as Eliot finally climbs the steps to join him on the platform with the thrones.

"So, here's the… this," King Quentin starts, a little awkward. "The whole thing is mostly formality, but it's still part of the greater, um, kingly process."

"Great," Eliot says. "Nothing like drama for drama's sake. How do we start?"

"First, you, uh, kneel." Eliot does, looking up at King Quentin and politely pretending not to notice the pink tinge to his cheeks. "And then, there's this whole long speech I'm supposed to give about Ember and Umber and the divine beauty of a united Fillory." He pauses, tellingly. "Which I definitely have not practiced since I was eighteen."

"I think I get the gist," Eliot says with a smile. "You can skip to the end, I won't tell."

King Quentin smiles back at him, a little less nervously now, and clears his throat. "I, King Quentin, hereby forfeit all duties of the throne and cede its power to the High King, rightful and promised, if he will accept it."

He holds out his hands, palms up, and Eliot covers them with his own almost without thinking. "I will," he says, ignoring his racing heart. "I accept."

The king nods. "Then rise." He helps Eliot to his feet and leads him over to one of the middle two thrones, then steps back so he can sit. Eliot knows it's technically just a fancy old chair, but actually settling into the throne, _his_ throne, makes the whole— _everything_ seem more real than it had in the carriage. He looks back at King Quentin but finds him on one knee before him, head bowed.

"The throne is yours, as it always has been," he says, solemn and devout. "High King Eliot, long may you reign."

Eliot lets the words wash over him, relishing in the tingling feeling they leave under his skin. He wonders if the mostly-for-show ceremony maybe has some magic tied up in it after all, or maybe it's just pent-up anxiety finally working its way out of him. He slides his hands down the arms of the throne and lets out a long breath. 

King Quentin looks up after a moment, smiling at him again. "How's it feel?"

"Like maybe I should've done a degree in economics instead of musical theatre," Eliot says, glancing around at the other thrones. "Is that it?"

"That's it," King Quentin agrees, standing up.

"Great," Eliot sighs, crossing one knee over the other. "I don't know what I was expecting, but this is—" He stops, frowning as King Quentin reaches up to take off his silver crown. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I'm not— king anymore, so…" He holds his crown out to Eliot, who takes it from him somewhat gingerly.

"Oh." Eliot definitely knew going in that this was part of his taking the throne, but it doesn't feel great now that it's actually happening. "Okay, uh—" He sets it down on the seat of the next throne and tries to smile. "What's the title of address for a former king?"

"Just Quentin is fine, Your Majesty."

Eliot frowns. Even _his_ title doesn't feel as good when King Quentin - _just_ Quentin - looks so carefully blank. He hesitates a moment, then stands up. "Well, I'm not sure how I feel about this sort of power imbalance, so— let's say we're both on first-name-basis, alright?"

"Uh," Quentin manages, looking confused. "Are you— really?"

"Sure, it's only fair." Eliot crosses the platform and hops down the first couple steps to sit, leaning back on his palms. When Quentin doesn't join him, he sighs and twists to glance back at him. "Look, this whole thing is... kind of a lot to take in," he admits. "But I think you're the only one in at least two worlds who has any idea what it's like."

"I guess so," Quentin says after a moment, and comes down to sit beside him.

"I _know_ so," Eliot insists. "Crown or not, we're equal, okay?"

Quentin nods, a tiny smile spreading across his mouth. Pleased, Eliot nudges his arm. "Just don't try it with Margo. You definitely have to use her full title at every opportunity. High Queen Margo, First of Her name, etcetera."

"Of course," Quentin agrees, serious again. Eliot is sure Margo is going to love him. "So, she's your wife?"

Or maybe she won't. "God, no, not unless we're both single at forty and need it for tax reasons," Eliot laughs. "She is, among other things, my platonic soulmate. Well, mostly platonic."

Quentin furrows his brow, clearly trying his best to follow along. "So… you made her the high queen… because…?"

"Because she deserves it," Eliot says simply. It was also because there's no way he can see himself doing this without her, but that's beside the point. "It was mostly her idea to come here in the first place, you know."

"Really?" Quentin asks, perking up again. "Did you even know Fillory existed?"

"Not until very recently," Eliot allows. "But you know how it is: one day you're at school, minding your own business, trying to figure out your Master's thesis, and the next you find out the magical world you had previously thought was made up to sell books is actually, in fact, real. If that isn't cause for a field trip, I don't know what is." He pauses to watch Quentin press his lips together in a polite attempt not to laugh before continuing, waving his hand. "Anyway, we lasted about half an hour before the locals realized Alice's miniskirt wasn't exactly the peasant chic they were used to and asked us if we were from Earth, and then there was this whole thing with this knife-maker guy - long story short, we all took a blood test." He leans over a little to show Quentin the cut on his palm. "Mine was positive, now we're here."

"Wow," Quentin murmurs. He brushes his fingers gently over Eliot's wrist for a moment, then quickly takes his hand back. "At my school, we only went on field trips to, like, the aquarium."

"If it makes you feel any better, we might get expelled upon getting back," Eliot says dryly, then grins at him. "It’ll be worth it, though. Plus, I think getting crowned king qualifies me for academic leave."

Quentin snorts. "Damn, I should’ve thought of that." He shakes his head, looking down. "Might be a little late now, though."

Curious, Eliot sits up a little. "You've been here for something like ten years, you said?" he prompts. "Where was that door you found?"

Mouth twisting, Quentin tucks his hair behind his ear. "Um. In a psych ward?"

"Oh," Eliot fumbles, fully unprepared to backtrack. "That's, uh. I'm sorry."

Quentin just shrugs. "It's fine, I just… don't think about it much anymore." He crosses his arms like he's uncomfortable, but angles himself towards Eliot anyway, gently knocking their knees together. "When I was fifteen, I tried to kill myself," he says, quiet but not shying away from the words. Eliot tries not to either. "I got admitted to this hospital, and while I was there my dad brought me the Fillory books - you know, the series?"

He glances up just long enough to see Eliot nod. "I really loved them when I was younger, and having them again helped me get back to normal. Or, uh—" He falters a bit, recrossing his arms. "They did for a while. The second time I was admitted, it was… rough," he sighs, mouth twisting again. "I just wanted to escape from everything. And then, one night…" He trails off, still looking down, but his eyes are far away in the memory.

"There was this door, I think it was a closet or something, but suddenly there was... sunlight, streaming out from behind it. I didn't know what it meant, I just knew I wanted to be somewhere else." He looks back at Eliot then, smiling just a little. "And when I stepped through, I ended up here."

Eliot matches it, reaching out to put his hand on Quentin's shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture - it makes Quentin unclench a bit, at least. "And the rest is history, I guess?" 

"Yeah," Quentin sighs, leaning back against the steps. "Turns out you can get a lot done when you're depressed and suddenly find yourself in a literal fantasy land that crowns you king at fifteen." He gives Eliot another tiny, wry smile. "I'm not, like, cured, but… having people depending on me made it a little harder to let myself give up, you know?"

Eliot can relate to that, if nothing else. He squeezes Quentin's shoulder before moving his hand and leaning forward with his arms folded across his knees, chin propped upon his fist. "So what all did you get done over the years? Give me the stops of King Quentin's greatest hits tour."

Quentin lets out a long breath, considering it. "Well, we uncursed the thrones a few years ago, that was pretty big," he says, tilting his head. "Settled some fairy disputes, gained and then repaid a centaur life-debt, talked my way out of a mermaid war one time... Had a ship named after me?" He makes it sound like that, of all things, is the weirdest. "Couldn't get democracy figured out, but that might've been because all my memories of APUSH are pretty foggy."

"Definitely," Eliot says, dry as a desert. "In the medieval fantasy world where destiny picks the king, I'm _sure_ that was on you."

"I never said there weren't framework problems," Quentin snickers, rolling his eyes. "Some things I couldn't do much about on my own, but I tried my best to be fair, and make people happy."

"On your own?" Eliot repeats. "Don't you have advisors, or something? Tick mentioned a council, I think?"

"I meant— in my own name," Quentin explains. "Like, yes, I was king of Fillory, but there were some things I couldn't touch. Political alliances and things like that - sometimes I couldn't take them as far as they needed to go without being, you know." He makes a vague gesture at Eliot. "High king. The _true_ high king."

Eliot frowns. "Some places would really rather wait around for a guy who might not show up for another century than cut a deal with you?"

"You did show up eventually," Quentin points out, and smiles when Eliot waves him off. "Besides that, some of them wanted an alliance through marriage, which I wasn't exactly up for, so." He shrugs. "My fault as well as theirs."

"Hardly," Eliot snorts. "I can't say I'd want to marry a talking otter, either."

"The otters aren't that bad, actually," Quentin admits. "It's the fairies who have trouble taking 'no' for an answer. Sorry in advance, I guess."

Eliot tries not to grimace. "Political pressure to marry, got it." It's not quite his favourite aspect of this whole thing, but it could definitely be worse - at least he's still the king, unlike some. He hesitates a moment before bumping his knee against Quentin's again. "What are your plans for after all this? Now that you're essentially a free man."

Quentin blinks a few times. "I… don't really know. I haven't thought about it."

In his defense, Eliot supposes, it _has_ probably been a while since the last time a high king showed up to throw a wrench in the entire regency. "Well, you can probably stay at Whitespire for the time being, right?"

"Depends. I'll have to ask Tick," Quentin says with a shrug. "But if I can't, there's still a lot of things in Fillory I haven't seen yet. Maybe I'll do some travelling."

"You wouldn't go back to Earth?" Eliot asks.

Quentin furrows his brow. "Is that even an option?"

"Well—" Eliot isn't sure how to even begin to explain Travelling without Penny around. "For argument's sake, if you could go back, would you?" Quentin thinks about it for a moment, and Eliot frowns when he shakes his head. "Really? I mean, I know you missed out on ten years of pop culture, and accidentally didn't graduate, and— you might also be presumed dead." He pauses, turning this over in his mind while Quentin gives him a wry look. "I think I see the problem."

"Yeah, I don't think I'm ready for that, just yet." He brushes his hair out of his face again, looking away. "I'll hang around Whitespire if I can, and if not, I'll… figure something out. Find a quest, or whatever."

Eliot isn't exactly put at ease by that. "Well, I've got to be honest," he says, turning to face Quentin properly. "It kind of feels like you're getting the shortest possible end of the stick, here. You've had this great run, and I'm just showing up out of nowhere - literally - to take over. Also literally."

"You'll be fine," Quentin says easily, like he's not bothered at all. "I'll put in as much of a good word as I can, if I get the chance."

"But— aren't you upset?"

Quentin gives him a weird look. "Should I be?"

"I don't know, you just seem… remarkably calm about this whole thing," Eliot says, gesturing at the thrones, and then the room at large. "All this was yours for a _decade_."

"It was," Quentin agrees quietly. He gives the throne a wistful look for a moment, then turns away, facing Eliot again. "And now it's yours." 

Eliot frowns, ready to protest, but Quentin cuts him off with a hand on his arm. "I said before, I took the crown knowing I would be asked to give it up eventually," he says, soft. "As long as you do right by Fillory, I'm happy to step aside." 

He sounds almost unbearably sincere, and Eliot is struck by how clearly Quentin loves this place, how much of his heart he must have put into it… It makes the whole situation feel even worse, somehow. 

"What if I don't know how?" Eliot tries, catching Quentin's hand when he starts to pull away. "I'm not sure if anyone made this clear yet, but I don't really have the ideal resume for this job."

Quentin looks surprised for a second, but it smooths out into a gentle smile as he turns his hand over to hold Eliot's more easily. "Eliot," he breathes - and it's unfair that Eliot can't even appreciate the way his name sounds in Quentin's mouth, not when he's about to ruin everything— "You'll be okay. You were destined for this."

Eliot is really starting to get tired of hearing that word. "Destiny could be bullshit, for all we know."

"Maybe it is," Quentin says, still soft. "But this… you, here, in this room…" He trails off, looking down at their joined hands. "It feels right."

Deflating, Eliot drops his gaze as well. He watches as Quentin brushes his thumb over the back of his hand, sparing a moment to appreciate the soothing gesture - and suddenly has a wild thought hit him like lightning. "Hey, what if we— hm."

Quentin looks up at him, a little alarmed. "What if we what?"

"I… have an idea," Eliot says haltingly, heart pounding. "Something, uh, mutually beneficial, but it's…" It's a little insane, is what it is. Margo is going to kill him for this. "Just— hear me out."

"Sure," Quentin says carefully, still concerned. "What is it?"

Eliot takes a deep breath. "Marry me."

Quentin blinks at him. "What?"

"Think about it," Eliot says quickly, gesturing between them with his free hand. "You've got ten years of kingly experience, you're well-liked, and you know as much about Fillory as actual Fillorians. I have the crown and no fucking idea what I'm doing with it." He searches Quentin's face, but his expression is hard to read - he's still holding onto Eliot's hand, though, so he can't be entirely on the wrong track. "This way, you can keep your crown and maybe get the ball rolling on some of the things you couldn't change before, and— you know, make sure I don't royally fuck your whole country the moment you leave. And no one has to marry a badger."

"Otter," Quentin corrects quietly.

Eliot pauses to squint at him. "Is that really all you're going to nitpick, here?"

Quentin frowns defensively. "I'm just saying, the badgers actually have less of a claim to the woodland than you'd think. The otters have been sharing territory with the mermaids for centuries, and that's not even bringing the frog uprising into account, which… is kind of a long story," he finishes lamely, seeming to remember the conversation at hand. He tucks his hair behind his ear again. "Are you really— are you serious?"

Eliot gives him a patient smile. "About which part?"

"Um, all of it?" Quentin tries, then drops his gaze. "Marrying you?"

"I know it's a little… dramatic," Eliot admits, bringing his other hand to wrap around Quentin's as well. "But I really think it could be the best option, if you want to stay." He watches carefully as Quentin considers it, doubts mounting with every quiet second. "Of course, if you'd rather spend your retirement travelling and seeing what the unexplored world has to offer, I understand completely."

"What? No," Quentin says, frowning. "I'm just— it's a lot to think about. But you're right, mostly."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I'll be sure to brush up on my otter politics at the first available opportunity."

"Not about that," Quentin laughs. "I mean I'm not worried about you screwing it up on your own." He squeezes Eliot's fingers, smiling shyly. "I think I'd like to be here to see you prove yourself wrong about that."

"Oh." Eliot swallows hard. "So— that's a yes, then?"

Quentin's expression turns playful, and he tilts his head like he's weighing all his options. "You know, for a royal proposal," he hums, conspiratorial, "this is kind of underwhelming." 

Well, Eliot knows a challenge when he hears one. He wastes no time in pulling Quentin to his feet and leading him up to the platform again, arranging him to stand in front of the thrones before stepping away to pick up the silver crown he'd left there. He turns back to Quentin and drops to one knee, purposefully mirroring the positions they'd been in for the throne ceremony. Somehow, it feels more important this time.

"I, High King Eliot, do hereby ask for your hand," Eliot says, in his clearest, most regal voice, "in marriage and in shared ruling power over Fillory - as King, once again. Rightful and deserved."

He smiles up at Quentin, who looks— maybe a little exasperated, but happy, biting back a grin. Eliot holds a hand out to him. "If he will accept," he tacks on. "What do you say?"

"I accept," Quentin laughs, breathless, taking Eliot's hand.

"Good." Grinning, Eliot stands up and tugs him closer. "I don't have a ring yet, but in the meantime, I can return this to you." He lifts the crown to place it gently back on Quentin's head. Quentin takes a sharp breath and closes his eyes as Eliot lets go.

"The throne - well, one of them - is yours, as it should be," Eliot says, leaning back to admire his handiwork. "King Quentin. Long may you reign."

Letting out a shaky sigh, Quentin opens his eyes to look up at him. "Thank you, Eliot, you didn't have to—"

"Pretty sure I did," Eliot cuts him off, sliding his hands down Quentin's arms. "You're still doing me a way bigger favour. But I swear I'll pull my weight here, okay? I want to… not fuck this up."

Quentin smiles at him, turning his hands over to slip into Eliot's. "You won't."

He says it with such certainty that, for a moment, even Eliot believes it - anything seems possible when Quentin is standing so close, looking at him like this, tilting his face up just the tiniest bit, lips parting as Eliot leans down— 

But the loud creak of the door opening startles them apart. Eliot twists around in time to see Tick enter the room, peeking cautiously around the door.

"Forgive me, sires," he calls. "The high queen insisted we make sure there were no, ah, _shenanigans_ , I believe she said." He comes a little closer and stops, looking between them confusedly. "You— have completed the ceremony, have you not?"

Eliot looks back at Quentin and realizes with where they're standing, it probably looks like they haven't moved at all since the others left. Quentin seems to come to the same conclusion and smiles, sheepish. "We have, thank you, Tick."

"Oh, good," Tick says, and barely turns back towards the door before Margo is barging in, Alice and Penny close behind.

"How long does it take to sit in a chair?" Margo demands, crossing her arms.

"There was a bit more to it than that," Eliot says, smiling when Quentin tries to hide a snicker. "And King Quentin and I had some… other things to talk about."

Tick looks confused again, seeming to register for the first time that Quentin is still wearing his crown. "I trust the ceremony went smoothly," he says, hesitant.

"It did," Quentin assures him. "But there is, um, something I need to discuss with the High Council. Can you call a meeting?"

Tick agrees easily enough, heading quickly out of the room. Quentin gives Eliot a relieved look before moving to follow him, but Eliot catches his hand.

"Hey, should I attend this meeting, too?" he asks. He's not entirely sure how much of a problem they've created. "In case you need backup?"

"I've been handling the Council by myself for ten years," Quentin reminds him with a smile, then glances over his shoulder. "I think you have your own meeting to call, anyway."

Eliot follows his gaze to where Margo, Penny and Alice are waiting not-so-patiently at the back of the room. Margo catches his eye and raises her eyebrows expectantly. "Ah. Right."

He lets go of Quentin's hand, but Quentin seems to hesitate just a moment before he leans in close. "Um, when you're done, can we— meet somewhere?" he murmurs, eyes darting up to Eliot's and away again. "There's a courtyard with a garden. It's pretty, um, secluded."

Eliot nods, unreasonably pleased with the pink flush spreading over Quentin's cheeks. "Until then, Your Majesty," he purrs, teasing, and then bows deeply, peeking up at Quentin through his lashes as he dips down before ducking his head to finish. 

When he straightens up, Quentin's face is bright red. He gives Eliot a tiny, hurried bow of his own before he turns and scurries out of the room. Eliot watches him go with a smile, then finally heads down the steps to join his friends.

"What was that about?" Penny asks, thumbing over his shoulder in the direction Quentin disappeared. "I thought you were taking the throne from him and that's it."

"Yes, well," Eliot sighs, folding his hands behind his back. "Plans change."

Margo narrows her eyes at him. "You didn't give up your title because you felt bad, or something, did you?"

"No, of course not. Give me a little credit, Bambi."

"Okay, what _did_ you do?" Alice cuts in. "Why is King Quentin calling a High Council meeting?"

Eliot briefly considers keeping it a secret until he can tell just Margo alone, but— god, who is he kidding? "Well, I… proposed."

"Proposed what?" Alice asks, skeptical. "Shouldn't you know what you're working with before getting into new laws and treaties?"

Penny gives Eliot an almost impressed look. "Are you fucking up the Fillorian economy _already_?"

"No, I mean—" Eliot pauses to huff and draw himself up to his full, certified-kingly height. "I _proposed_." When the three of them still give him blank, vaguely suspicious looks, he rolls his eyes. "Like, marriage."

Margo pinches the bridge of her nose. "El, we were gone, like, fifteen minutes."

"It's mutually beneficial," Eliot insists. "He's a beloved Fillorian leader who wants a little more weight behind his name. I'm the long-awaited high king with no prior training or experience. If we marry, we both get what we need, and Fillory gets the best of both worlds." He looks around at the three of them, frowning at their lack of enthusiasm. "Come on, it's a good idea."

"Jesus, Eliot," Alice sighs, rubbing her temples. "You could have just asked him to be a royal advisor, or something."

Eliot, admittedly, did not think of that. "I like my idea better," he says after a moment, ignoring Penny throwing his hands up in exasperation. "It's the right move, politically speaking."

"Uh-huh," Margo says flatly. "Politically, of course. Nothing at all to do with how cute he is."

Eliot glares at her half-heartedly. "You're really going to slander your king like this?"

Margo smiles sweetly back at him. "I think as High Queen, it’s my right, actually."

"Okay, uh, no offense, but do we have to stay in Fillory for the whole engagement period?" Penny asks, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like, can we just come back on the actual wedding day? I kind of have plans."

Alice nods along. "We should probably go back to Brakebills anyway, and let someone know Eliot isn't dead, right?"

Eliot huffs, waving them off and heading back up to the platform. "You guys can do whatever you want," he says, settling into his throne, "but I’m staying."

He purposefully doesn't watch Penny's inevitable eye roll or Alice's conflicted lip-biting, focusing instead on the ornate detailing on the arm of the throne. At least someone, at some point in time, had taste.

It doesn't take long for Margo to quit loudly whispering with the others and climb the steps to join him. She barely gives the thrones a second glance before she lowers herself into the one beside Eliot and crosses her legs. "Well, I know we didn't really make much of a plan for this trip, but I gotta say - becoming a sovereign was a nice surprise, but it wasn't the type of activity I had in mind."

Sighing heavily, Eliot looks up at the beautifully carved ceiling. "If you want to go with them, Bambi—"

"Did I say that?" Margo cuts him off with a sharp look. "No, I'm pretty sure we can rock this. But I'm wondering about what _you_ want." She reaches over to put her hand over his. "Not to say you aren't a shining example of healthy coping mechanisms, but is there something going on?"

Eliot gives her as blank a look as he can manage. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. You don't usually want to change up the weekend routine of getting blitzed and picking out a first year to play with unless you have something on your mind." She searches his face, brow furrowed. "I mean, going to Fillory for a fun getaway is one thing, but becoming king? Leaving Brakebills?"

"In my defense, that first part wasn't really my choice," Eliot points out.

Margo presses her lips together. "Okay, fair. But you seem committed, and that's not a word I've ever used to describe you. Not to mention the marriage bomb you just dropped."

"It's the right—"

"The right move, yeah, I get it. That's not what I mean, El."

Eliot glances over and finds Margo looking back at him not with the scrutiny he had expected, but with care. "King Quentin is cute, but he can't be the only thing making you want to stay," she says softly.

After a moment, Eliot lets out a long breath. "You're right, it's more than that." He shakes his head. "I don't know how to explain it, Bambi."

Margo squeezes his hand. "Look, I know destiny sounds like a big deal, and being told all of Fillory was waiting for you to get here is… heavy. But you don't have to do any of this, Eliot." She gently turns his hand over and pulls his fingers away from his palm, revealing the cut there. "This doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to."

For a second, Eliot considers it - leaving the crown here, going back to Brakebills like nothing ever happened. The thought brings a little bit of relief, but it doesn't feel as good as he expected it to. Not nearly as good as anything that's happened in the throne room has felt. He clenches his fist over the cut.

"I think I do want it to mean something," he admits, nearly whispering. "I'm not bored of Brakebills or the Cottage or anything, but this is… it feels different." He glances up at Margo again, meeting her eyes and searching for understanding there. "I have no idea what I'm doing, but it's like there's a— a purpose for me, here."

"More than just the blood test thing?" Margo asks, quiet.

"Maybe. But I want to stay and find out." Eliot relaxes his hand again, sliding his fingers between Margo's. "I'm sure we can figure out a way to get a landline in Whitespire. Or like, spell a Nokia to receive inter-dimensional texts."

"Very funny," Margo says, swatting him. "If you're staying in Fillory, I am too. That's non-negotiable."

Eliot looks at her in surprise, but she glares back at him, defiant, like she's daring him to even _try_ to talk her out of it. God, he really loves her. "Thanks, Bambi," he sighs, managing a smile.

Margo waves him off, but she's smiling, just a little. "You think I'd let you make me high queen and then bail before I even get to order anyone around?" she scoffs. "Plus there's the wedding to plan, and as your self-appointed maid of honour, it's my responsibility to keep you from going full groomzilla on our subjects." With a huff, she lets go of his hand and settles more comfortably in her throne. "Now go."

"Uh—" Eliot glances around. "Where, exactly?"

"I saw that look you gave King Quentin earlier," Margo says knowingly. "You two were whispering about something. You're probably meeting up somewhere secluded, right?"

Eliot opens his mouth and then closes it. Margo rolls her eyes. "Predictable," she sighs as Eliot stands up. "Just make sure Fillory doesn't have any weird pre-marital laws before you get frisky."

"How dare you," Eliot says, gasping in mock offense as he heads down the steps. "I do have _some_ class, Margo."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Margo calls after him.

He does his best to walk slowly through Whitespire's halls, unsure how long a High Council meeting might go on for, but after a few minutes he starts to wish he had gotten a tour of his own. Maybe as king he could make an ordinance about the legal number of hallways that all lead in circles. He'll ask Tick about it later.

Finding his way to the correct courtyard takes a while, but he does eventually find Quentin in the garden. The sun is just beginning to set, making the whole area look golden and idyllic, so maybe it was worth getting lost a few times after all. Quentin is waiting by a patch of flowers with a tall trellis behind it, and looks like he's talking quietly to some of the vines woven through it. Eliot pauses to just watch him for a second, taking in the sunlight on his crown and the relaxed line of his shoulders before he goes over to greet him. "Are you telling me flowers talk here, too?"

Quentin turns around, already smiling. "Not as far as I know. But they're good at listening." 

He looks back at the flowers as Eliot comes to a stop beside him. "Sometimes they open up when I get close," he says, but all the bulbs on the trellis are closed. "...Not when anyone else is around to see it, though."

"Apparently." Eliot feels a bit like he's being judged by plants, which is… fine, he supposes. "What do you usually tell them?"

"Just— stuff," Quentin says with a shrug. "Exciting news, castle updates, venting when the Council is being difficult, you know." He kneels down to prod at one of the flowers blooming in the patch, straightening out its stem. "When I first got here, after the initial fascination and excitement wore off, I would come out here just to be by myself. Some of them looked enough like Earth flowers that I could… pretend, for a little while, that I was there instead."

Eliot hums, bending down beside him. "Do you still miss it? Earth?"

"Sort of," Quentin admits. "It's like a weird nostalgia. I'm not sure if what I remember is actually how it was, or if it's distorted." He turns to Eliot with a hesitant look. "I've almost lived more of my life here, by now."

"Plus you had the books, before all this," Eliot points out.

"Fillory isn't like the books made it out to be, though," Quentin sighs, looking back down at the flowers. "It's not all fun adventures and whimsy. It's more complicated and confusing and needlessly convoluted sometimes, but it's—" he pauses, like he's searching for the words. Eliot waits, studying the side of his face, the calm line of his brow, the quirk of his mouth when he speaks again. "It was there for me when I felt like no one else was. And now when I think of home…"

"You're already here," Eliot finishes for him. He's spent a long time violently pushing away any thought of _home_ to avoid the unbidden associations that come with the word, but the peaceful look Quentin has when he talks about Fillory… Eliot lets himself wonder if he could have that, too.

Quentin nods, then gets a sheepish look and stands up again. "Anyway, I was just— filling them in," he says, gesturing vaguely at the closed bulbs. "How did your friends take the news?"

Eliot shrugs as he straightens up. "Pretty well, considering we only got here a few hours ago and I've already made arguably the most dramatic life changes possible. How about you?" He knocks his shoulder gently into Quentin's. "You had to call a whole board meeting or something, right?"

Quentin grimaces just a little. "Tick is gonna handle it. He's either ecstatic or on the verge of a meltdown, I can never tell which. And they'll announce the, um, engagement… tomorrow." He glances up at Eliot. "When they also announce you as High King."

"Yikes," Eliot says, with feeling. "Well, hopefully your citizens won't be too upset about the musical chairs we're pulling with the thrones."

"I think it'll be okay," Quentin laughs. "You are destined for this, after all. Plus, the marriage thing… helps."

Eliot raises his eyebrows. "Does it?"

Quentin gives him a weak sort of smile. "Tick has... dropped hints before, about how Fillorians really wanted me to get married and, like, settle down. For a while he held it off because I wasn't of age on Earth, but for the past few years…" He sighs and ducks his head. "It's kind of felt like I'm letting them down, I guess."

Watching him quietly, Eliot thinks again of how Quentin all but fell into the crown and yet put so much of himself into it, so much that apparently all his citizens had to worry about was their king being lonely. Well, if Eliot is going to do right by Fillory, he's going to start with this.

"If that's the worst thing they had to say about you, I think you did alright,'' he says, stepping a little closer to Quentin and reaching out to take his hand. "And, look— we're in it together now. Anything that happens, I'm… here."

Quentin looks up at him with a smile. "I know you are." He looks like he wants to say something else but pauses, glancing down at their joined hands. "I'm not really sure how all this works," he admits eventually.

"What, marriage?" Eliot frowns. "Are there weird Fillorian customs I don't know about?"

"Maybe? I didn't ask," Quentin says, cringing. "I just mean— in general, I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to— this." He gestures vaguely between them, turning pink again. Eliot bites back a grin.

"I don't exactly know how to rule a country either," he drawls, tugging on Quentin's hand just a little.

Quentin gives him a wry smile. "Lucky for you, I have some experience."

"And lucky for _you_ , I've been preparing my whole life to be a trophy husband," Eliot says easily. "Think we can help each other out?"

Laughing, Quentin lets himself be drawn in a little further. He looks up at Eliot like he had in the throne room and Eliot doesn't hesitate to lean in, unable to resist or bring himself to care if it's too soon - Quentin is tilting his face up towards him again and he's going for it, this time— 

But Quentin turns away with a quiet gasp. "Eliot, look!"

Eliot does, almost unbidden - the flowers on the trellis are all blooming, suddenly, petals unfolding brilliantly before their eyes. Quentin was right, some of them do look a little like daffodils, or maybe snapdragons. It's incredible, as beautiful and ridiculous as Whitespire and everything else in Fillory.

But Eliot doesn't find it hard to look away and settle his gaze back on Quentin instead. He looks so fascinated it's endearing, and Eliot can't imagine asking him to turn away for anything. He supposes there's time for everything else later, anyway - for now he'll just bask in the proud little smile Quentin gives him, let his fingers tangle up in Quentin's, and watch the flowers open up like tiny fireworks around them.

**Author's Note:**

> (writes something with no bed sharing or kissing) who am i hedwig. anyway join me on [the twitter](http://twitter.com/marcelucien_) where i'm gay or [tumblr](http://aniallating.tumblr.com/) where i'm also gay


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